Chez Picasso

In 1958, Picasso was returning to the Cote d'Azur after attending a corrida in Arles. A friend mentioned that the chateau at Vauvenarges was for sale. He fell in love with it and bought it on the spot. After his death, his second wife, Jacqueline, had him buried in the grounds. On her death, she was buried next to him, and the chateau passed to her daughter from a previous relationship.

The chateau was closed to visitors for over 30 years, until 2009, when it began opening for a brief period each year, by appointment only. It's still not very well-known, and as a result we were able to get a booking this afternoon by ringing up in the morning.

But first of all there was a flower market to visit, and Vietnamese food to eat, in downtown Aix-en-Provence. It seems like a miracle that in not much more time than it takes me to get to London, I can head out of Paris on a Friday night and be sitting on the terasse at Jo and SImon's the next morning, drinking my coffee (made with freshly-roasted Coutume beans, naturally). And honey-coloured Aix is at its best on a Saturday morning, all the small squares framing elegant fountains spilling over with food and flower and antique stalls.

We tear ourselves away from Aix and head for the hills. Twenty minutes later we are driving through increasingly narrow streets in the town of Vauvenarges. Simon ejects us from the car and goes in search of a park. We walk down a no-exit street and up to some iron gates. A young woman sititng at the entrance welcomes us and informes us that there is no taking photos anywhere in the grounds. We park ourselves on a bench in the shade and wait for Simon. He isn't long, as the village has thoughtfully provided a car park just outside the town for non-residents.

We walk up the short path to the out-building that serves as the shop. It is blessedly cool inside, as we escape the light and heat of a Provencal summer day. The walk will start in a few minutes. I install myself in a big squishy sofa and watch a home movie shot by Jacqueline of Picasso in his studio, Picasso waving to friends arriving, the children in the garden. He wags his finger at the camera. Turn that thing off, he seems to be saying. Then he relents and seems to be showing off his work, picking up one picture after another and presenting it to the camera. In the last shot, he turns and blows a kiss to the camera and the image freezes - sun outside the window, he is smiling, caught in a quiet domestic moment.

The visit starts with a potted history of the chateau. There have been buildings on the site since Roman times, when a former soldier bought the site with his discharge pay from Caesar's army. The bulk of the current building comes from the 17th century. It was resold in 1790, when most of the local nobles were liquidating their assets before someone else did it for them. The merchants who bought it rather cheekily kept the marquis' crest above the door.

We mount the steps leading to the main entrance. Through a narrow archway we can see the front door. We skirt around a round grassy bed with a curvy female statue presiding, holding out a lamp of some sort. We file obediently up the steps and into the tiny chateau. It has turrets and thick walls, but is not huge and rambling - the only reason it could house the nearby villagers in a time of crisis was because the village was also petite. But the tour still takes over an hour, because every detail of Picasso's life there is lovingly explained, and there is a special exhibition of his engravings.

When the Picassos arrived in the chateau, it had been stripped bare by the previous owners, antique dealers. So every stick of furniture, apart from the worn leather dining chairs, had been brought by Pablo himself. Most of it was dark and heavy country furniture, apart from a set of drawers nearly two metres high with dozens of thin drawers in beautiful wood. It had belonged to Cezanne, who knew how much Picasso admired it, and so on his deathbed he made his son promise to give it to the artist.

On the ground floor, there is a large hall leading onto a terrasse with a spectacular view of Mount St Victoire. This hill featured in many of Cezanne's paintings, who Picasso considered his spiritual master. The property extends all the way to the cross on top of the mountain. Picasso died during a particularly cold April, and it took six days to dig his grave. During that time, he was laid out in the large hall where the villagers took refuge in previous times. Every month, Jacqueline would return to decorate the hall with flowers.

We even were taken as far as the bedroom, where Picasso's bed was covered with a lime-green blanket in front of a yellow and red striped headboard representing the Catalan flag. You got the impression that his artistic talent did not extend to interior furnishings. But then the best part was the next room, which they had converted into a bathroom with glistening modern fittings. Behind the enormous bathtub was Picasso's first contribution to the house - a large faun playing a flute in a forest, painted directly onto the bathroom wall, "to keep Jacqueline company in the bath". I have never wanted so badly in my life to take a photo - and been unable to. We finished the visit in Picasso's studio, with the easels and paint tins lying around as if the owner has just popped out for a quick glass of rouge and a game of petanque.

The central staircase was pretty impressive - taking up a third of the building, and known as a "vanity staircase", it was intended to impress all visitors with the wealth and power of the original owner. Walking down it, the centuries-old stones uneven underfoot, I thought I could smell the faint scent of lavender.

We came out the main door, blinking into the bright sunshine, and assembled at the foot of the steps, where the guide told us that Picasso and Jacqueline were buried right in front of us, watched over by the woman with a lamp. She represented enlightenment, and was present at the Spanish Pavilion at the World Exhibition in Paris in 1937 - the last time Republican Spain was represented abroad. Picasso, an exile from Franco's Spain, died without returning to his birthplace. But he was at rest in the grounds of this chateau where he was happy with Jacqueline, and in the shadow of his master's mountain.